


It Should Still Mean Something

by Badendchan



Series: The Happy Huntresses Deluxe Season Pass -- (Exclusive DLC Content!) [3]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Canon Trans Character, Collars, F/F, Femdom, Gentle Sex, I am Not A Writer You See, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, Literally My First Published Fanfic, Pegging, Polyamory, Praise Kink, Trans Female Character, but like only two of them physically doink because the other pair are phoning in, mild Volume 8 Episode 1 spoilers, spoilers: robyn doinks may, this was a mistake, very happy huntresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:40:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27544744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badendchan/pseuds/Badendchan
Summary: It's the end of the world outside. Ancient undying Grimm Witch illegally double-parking her death-whale in public airspace. Abandoned by Atlas, hunted by the cops. Mantle's freezing or on fire, depending where you look. Their leader's gone, their lieutenant's burning herself at both ends. They're all tired, too serious to have time to breathe, to relax together as the quirky, queer dorks they are at home. They're hurting, but they're still holding on... to some extent.May might just need a special reminder how. A reminder of a promise she made, a long time ago.-OR-May Marigold, internalizing years of self-loathing: "LMAO, positive self-worth? Never heard of her."Robyn Hill, Fiona Thyme, Joanna Greenleaf (In Unison): "Silence, bottom."
Relationships: Joanna Greenleaf/Robyn Hill/May Marigold/Fiona Thyme, Lesbians/Being Very Tired, Robyn Hill/May Marigold
Series: The Happy Huntresses Deluxe Season Pass -- (Exclusive DLC Content!) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2030677
Comments: 23
Kudos: 56





	It Should Still Mean Something

**Author's Note:**

> To whom it may concern:  
> I'm not a writer. I have never done A Fanfic. I'm. Uh. Yeah, I don't really know what this is, either.
> 
> A notepad file materialized on my desktop. I tripped and fell on my keyboard, coincidentally resulting in rambling self-indulgent F/F gentle D/s smut.  
> Unfortunately, somehow, this fic occurred.  
> Unbeta'd, rush-edited. I did not sleep last night. I have been awake. Uh. A while.
> 
> This is not my fault.  
> I'm very sorry.

With a baleful growl from on high, the helpless civilian evacuation checkpoint below is mercilessly consumed in... a messy splotch of graphite.

The map of Mantle over which May Marigold broods had picked up a lot more of those, over the past several hours.

From her fully-outfitted tactical command center in the kitchen of the Happy Huntresses' dilapidated pub hideaway, May has at her disposal all the critical resources to fix up a fresh batch of jalapeño poppers, and utterly none necessary to manage a near-total evacuation of the civilian populace on zero notice.

By sunrise the morning after the initial Grimm assault, it became more than apparent that there would be no staying in this city under siege, not after losing the heating grid. That every effort taken over the years to properly house the poor souls stuck in The Crater's slums would have to be slammed into reverse, flooding an already destitute district with thousands of shock-addled refugees. Massive convoys on foot, fearful and frostbitten and drawing Grimm in droves. Operations organized through hastily-appointed liasons plucked from their connections throughout town, protected by freelancing huntsmen and huntresses for little more than IOU's and dibs on a spot in a shelter. Favors and friends all accrued over years of steady trust-building, suddenly throttled for every last drop of goodwill they'd got to offer. 

It hardly stands to help the frantic negotiations that most of the Happy Huntresses' allies are loyal to their hometown hero, to the friendly face of Robyn Hill -- MAYBE the adorable sheep faunus tag-along or the tall, beefy bodyguard -- and not so much the moody Marigold family exile presently gritting out relocation orders and backup requests through as polite a tone as she can muster. 

But Robyn Hill isn't here right now. Robyn Hill is missing in action.

And May would just have to suffice.

"Fi, update's come in from the watch team, you're needed over at 12th and, ah..." May coughs, thumbing the mute on her scroll and kneading at her throat.

Delicately put, she feels like shit. Worse than shit, even: Advanced shit, Grimm shit. And Grimm don't even shit, but maybe this... undying, eldritch queen of theirs -- _who apparently exists!_ \-- could spare a minute to brew up a brand new breed of Grimm *explicitly engineered* with the pseudobiological capacity to shit, JUST for May to have a comparable comrade in her shit-sackitude, inside and out.

She taps the readout again to unmute, to cut the slacking and get back on task, but the words just won't come. 

"Needed at..."

Being hoarse is no surprise; she's been talking nonstop since they began their refugee relay race hours ago, and she's supposed to be the QUIET one! The soreness isn't even the sticking point; ever since *those* days, she's grown more comfortable with her vocal range, but having to hear herself reduced to a raspy unfeminine rumble isn't doing her battered morale any favors. Then, the hit to her sense of hygiene from the pub's lack of a hot shower -- Beyond the clammy skin, her face feels fucking itchy, and she could unfortunately guess why, despite intentionally avoiding the mirrors and reflective surfaces plastered throughout the bar.

_But her partners are tooling around the city far more bruised and bloodied than herself, they don't need to hear her bitching about her stupid dysphoria or her dire need for a lozenge when the sky is literally about to fall. She took, what, one bad slug from a Beringel on the way over? That's no excuse, they need her on her game._

The kitchen door leading into the pub proper swings open, and a half-geared Fiona Thyme peeks her head into the room, one ovine ear wiggling with the motion. She waves her scroll in the air beside her, still patched into the Happy Huntress private call and prompting some faint feedback from both of their devices as she pipes up.

"Hello? May? I think the signal cut out, say again?"

_Gods, she's tired, if she's spacing out like this. Way to hold up the entire operation. Shape the fuck up, Marigold._

"...Supply drop ready for pickup on 12th and Cedar, sector six, the old dry cl--Kgh! ...Cleaners. You know the one," May finishes, quickly dropping her hand to the countertop and croaking until the scratchiness abates.

Rather than throw on her coat, stock up on fresh bolts, and scamper out into the chaos straightaway, Fiona simply squints at their impromptu dispatcher.

"Hey... You don't look so good."

_Thanks for confirming what she already knows! Moving on._

"Are you SURE you're alright? Have you even had breakfast? Taken your meds? Are you watching your aura? Let me check..."

_No, of course she hasn't taken her meds; she'd already missed her refill after the chaos of the election, and Doctor Polendina had better things to bring when they offered him safe haven. She wasn't going to send one of those Beacon brats into harm's way just to haul back her prescriptions instead of trauma kits, and besides, you can't bark movement orders and relay intel when you've got a chalky tablet dissolving under your tongue for half an hour._

"It's fine," May lies effortlessly, pathetically, "so hit the bricks already. Grimm invasion, remember? Imperiled civvies? End of the world as we know it? Just get out there."

The sheep faunus quickly cycles through confusion, concern, and consternation before the spinner lands square on 'disappointment.' The sharp furrow in her brow, cute as it may be to poke when teasing her, flashes immediate danger. May can't even get a pleading word in before Fiona whirls in place, cupping a hand to her mouth and shouting further back into the building.

"JOANNA! She's **_DOING IT_** AGAIN!"

May blanches.

This wasn't the first time she'd been thusly chastised, of course, though it could well be the last if they end up wasting precious time on insignificant issues, on things that don't _matter!_

_Mantle, that's what matters. Against the lives of the masses, what does one woman's stress weigh? And Fiona, of all people, trying to waste time fretting about her? Fi was the one who that scorpion bastard poisoned, she's the one still running missions with a slash in her stomach! Her aura baseline hasn't even stabilized yet! How in the hell could May complain when everyone else has REAL problems to--_

"See, just like always. But at a time like this...!" says Fiona. Still there.

Having been sucked into her own thoughts whilst staring blankly at a particularly rusty stove burner, May focuses up only to find an additional set of eyes glaring her down -- Joanna Greenleaf has joined the fray, clogging up the remainder of the doorway and leveling that stony stare in her direction. 

"You're going on break. Close the scroll, go lie down."

"Nnnno." 

_Now isn't the time! And, and now they're BOTH here, gawking, watching her crack, watching her not be enough, yet again..._

"I'm taking over," Joanna steamrolls right through the objection, "you're taking five."

Fiona reaches up to grip Jo's shoulder and nods firmly, hopping onto the bandwagon. "It's alright if you need to! You've been at this all night, same as us! You know we can hold it down, a-and, with those kids, we have more people helping out now, right? Why can't you put your feet up, just a little while?"

 ** _Why can't she?_** May's hands clench into tight fists, crumpling the worn edges of the Mantle map, and the dam breaks.

"Because if I'm not working, then I'm thinking, and if I'm thinking, then I'm thinking about _WHY_ exactly I'm doing this job, and if I'm thinking about why exactly I'm doing this job, I'm thinking about how _**SHE'S** NOT HERE!"_

The room sits crypt-silent, even the din of Manticores howling in the skies above cranked down to a low rumble.

When no voice intervenes, May's anguish continues spilling out messily into the kitchen, bordering on tearful: "Robyn's _GONE!_ Is she even still alive!? Does Ironwood have her? We can't even find out until these people are moved! And me! I'm not cut out to be the one in charge, I'm not supposed to be the one everyone turns to, I'm a fucking mess, I'm supposed to be _INVISIBLE,_ no one's supposed to be LOOKING at me like I know what I'm--"

"Breathe, May! Please?" Fiona's shout stems the flood, and the worry lacing her tone is mirrored in Joanna's typically placid face as both step bodily into the room.

"You're not going to do this to yourself, not while we're still around to keep you in line."

May's bitten fingernails scrape at the insides of her palms.

"I. Have. to. I SWORE I'd do everything I possibly could for Mantle, for this team, for all three of you..."

"You _ALSO_ swore something _else,_ " Joanna thunders, pacing forward to put that huge silhouette of hers to work, looming over the slumping May. "I shouldn't have to remind you what promise I mean. Robyn's-- No, she's *not* here, but you know exactly what she'd say if she were. We all do."

"Yeah, and don't make us pull rank!" adds the chipper sheep, playing the sweet to Jo's sour.

"We don't HAVE ranks, Fiona," May drawls.

Another prolonged silence reigns in the room, but of a different flavor. Joanna and Fiona both fixing the bluenette with a fond, yet unimpressed stare, a silent tally of authority. One in which _all_ parties know **_juuuuust where_** in the Happy Huntress Hierarchy May comfortably sits.

All the air of command afforded to Robyn's right hand stand-in evaporates in a flash.

"...Brothers damn you both. I hope you get eaten by a Sphinx. Go die in two unrelated fires." 

_No amount of dry, dreary cursing is going to excuse the blatant color in her cheeks._

Fiona chuffs, _quite_ pleased with herself, and juts a finger towards the breakroom-turned-bunkroom with a toothy grin. "None of that, now! Straight to bed, young lady!"

May produces a rude gesture with both hands, one for each girlfriend in attendance, at least until she needs to pocket her scroll and pick up her crossbow-staff from the floor. Before she can crouch for it, Joanna sweeps a boot beneath, kicks it right up with a flourish and passes it over. 

When May steps closer to grip her weapon, that's when Joanna strikes: Hauling the staff and its owner in close to press herself flush with May's figure, all the while a firm hand reaches back to grip the shorter huntress' lengthy ponytail wrappings and *tug*, angling her face high to forcibly draw her gaze.

May blinks. Repeatedly. _Also, did the heating grid just pop back on?_

"I'm serious," Joanna intones, voice lower and softer than her stoicism often affords, "what **_it_** meant then, it means now. What you are to us. Nothing's changed."

"You two don't have to pretend..." May's free hand wanders to her nape and rubs at it, still unable to fully shift the sheer weight of _absence_ from her mind. 

An arm snakes in from the edges of their peripheral vision, and Fiona's dainty hand sparks with aura, her semblance producing a toasty fire-dust thermos and ration bar from thin air. "Ahp-ahp-ahp! Less talking back, more... having snack!" Expectantly, she thap-thaps them against May's chest until the latter huntress relents.

She looked at them. Really looked at them. Closely enough to see the bags she can _feel_ under her own eyes mirrored so vividly in her teammates. To see the way Fiona holds herself trying not to agitate her abdominal wound, to see the discolored mottling of a bruise forming on Joanna's sternum from a hit her aura couldn't fully soak.

_And they're still not giving it up. Still not giving up on her, no matter how much she asks._

Defeatedly, May heaves an aggressive sigh, but doing so depletes the remainder of her Moody Bitch tank. The "Fine..." she mumbles as she hangs her head lacks any trace of sarcastic deflection. There's only hesitant acceptance. 

_Obedience._

Forking over the food and drink, Fiona darts up to land a quick peck on May's cheek. While she'd like to stick around and watch, make sure their mopiest member eats every last crumb, these are desperate times. "Anyway -- Twelfth and Cedar, dry cleaners, the folks that put Robyn's zoot suit out of its misery," she reconfirms, returning to task and heading for the rear exit to gear up.

" _Our_ misery, you mean," Joanna chuckles, putting in one last playful yank on May's ponytail before turning her loose and heading over to set up by the map station. "I should've paid them for it."

Though her drained and docile state's got May lacking in bluster by this point, that suit WAS a nightmare. Their leader was a Mantle media meme for a month, and for all the wrong reasons. "It was a public service. They deserved a medal," she quips, lethargically dragging herself over to the breakroom door and letting her temple thunk roughly against the doorjamb. 

"I'm... just going to close my eyes for a few minutes. You call me on the private channel if ANYTHING happens on the way, you hear me? Just... a few minutes."

Jo and Fi share a look, a smirk, an immaculately synchronized raising of eyebrows. One slips out for her supply run, the other starts poring over the city map. And May?

She does as she's told.

The pub's break-bunk-backroom is dark, and May doesn't bother flipping the lights, navigating by the thin shred of light creeping in from under the door. The reek of old beer's long been replaced by the reek of old-beer-and-an-entire-can-of-'Solitas Spruce'-body-spray, and all are being punished for the act of hubris. She kicks aside a few empty cardboard boxes on the way to the lumpy couch, and crumples hard onto the upholstery. The furniture groans almost as much as she does.

That protein bar is a bland thing, and a godsdamned liar for proclaiming its flavor ANYWHERE in the neighborhood of peanut butter, but it puts something in her empty stomach. The tea in the thermos -- a decaf green, because of *course* those two wouldn't give her the saving grace of caffeine right now -- washes down all the rough bits, and May sinks deep into the pillows piled over the armrest as some of her soreness subsides. 

The physical sort, anyhow. Flinging her ponytail over the edge and out of the way, May curls up with an arm draped over her eyes, waiting for her brain and body to get on the same page vis-a-vis her exhaustion, and stamp her passport to dreamland. As she ruminates, she finds herself reaching for that stretch of throat that her scarf doesn't cover, touching it tentatively. It no longer feels like a dug-dry dust mine tunnel in there, but that's hardly the point. That's hardly the reason she touches it. Feels the empty space.

May frowns.

* * *

For the uninitiated outsider, trying to get May Marigold to loosen up is like trying to do dental work on a Sabyr -- plenty of snorting, flailing, a nonzero risk of getting one's head bitten off -- but in Robyn's humble opinion, the former challenge is worth the risk and effort both. Even just prying her away from her piles of work cluttering the coffee table and the endless monotony of the evening newscast would be a start.

That's not to say there isn't an important story airing: Robyn Hill's very first district primary win. It was a long time coming, and a safe margin they'd taken, too -- much broader than the year prior according to the landslide still rolling in by the wee hours of morning. The Happy Huntresses chained together a long streak of town halls, bar crawls, and Grimm brawls over recent months, canvassing every Mantle demographic whenever they weren't busy saving their collective hides from wayward beasts. May's former vieux riche ties and knack for upper-city political minutiae played no small part in their success this year, and for the first time in a long time, their calendar's clear the _entire weekend._

While common sense -- and Robyn! -- might dictate such a night would be the optimal time to celebrate as a team, to finally take her girlfriends out for a fine-dine-and-snooty-wine dinner, fancy dresses and full regalia, SOME among their number were being, in her own words, 'party poopers.' Two of whom posited the ancient laws of the refrigerator date night chart are sacrosanct, and not for mortal hands to trifle with, and one whose eloquent position on the matter was a dismissive grunt. The dinner date falls back to Sunday.

Fi and Jo had already bundled up and set out early for the bus stop; the old coot driving the 5:15 never sticks to his schedule, and the pair had no intention of being late for their highly romantic getaway to heckle-watch a cheap matinee showing of Tryst in the Mist, smooch in the back row, maybe pick up some cheap Vacuan food on the way home. 

May Marigold, conversely, returned to scanning news chyrons. 

Which brings Robyn Hill to her present predicament: A whole Friday evening free to do with what she pleases, a giddy thrill in her blood, a grown woman's healthy libido, a wealth of gratitude towards her girlfriends for all their hard work, and the nearest and most deserving receptacle in which to deposit said gratitude is... **_doing it again._**

"Maaaayyyyy, dear. They always say too much TV will rot your brain... Come sit with me?"

"For the third time--! You've got double interviews coming up about this win on *Monday,* morning AND evening talk. I need to get a read on the press reaction, then we need to start you on curveballs, your Day One Plan if you make it to the final running for Councilwoman..."

Dental work on a Sabyr. 

Robyn posts up against the counter in the adjacent kitchenette, helping herself to a cup from May's coffeepot. The woman in question once relayed a morbid anecdote about how upper-crust Atlesians love a blend brewed with coffee cherries crapped back out by a Central Mistrali tree-cat, but mercifully, May's drinking straight black store-brand. As Robyn immediately doses it with the requisite amount of sugar and cream for sane human consumption, she takes a while to watch her bitter sweetheart work. And work. _And hurt._

This Is A Thing, for their humble family. Ever since their Academy days, even before May's grand revelation -- maybe even ESPECIALLY before -- it's been plain that Marigold was a certain sort of selfless. Attention ever-outward, because the value of The Self is nothing. It's close to the heroic ideal, but not quite. 

It's the special brand of selflessness that the Atlas Military prizes in students, the kind easily stretched and skewed into unquestioning, thoughtless, nationalistic loyalty. The kind that gets you killed in the name of preserving the Atlesian establishment's global interests. Dead in a ditch in a far-off land, all so the Schnee Dust Company won't lose a single lien on their quarterly.

Robyn and her merry girl-gang might've seduced their sweetheart off the fast track into joining Ironwood's Specialists (not to say she wouldn't have looked dashing in the uniform) but the burnt-in behavior remains, another lifelong wound. Deflecting compliments, favors, gifts. Claims to be 'undeserving.' Stilted internal rankings of 'importance,' herself ALWAYS clinging to the lowest rung.

When Robyn had climbed back up to the apartment after a long day of shaking hands and thanking voters, she'd immediately hit the closet for some cozy layabout clothes: snug fleece jogging pants and a fuzzy grey turtleneck. May? Straight to the coffee table, straight back to work. _Still. In. Her combat gear._

To the outsider, it would be stupid to try shaking up that highly volatile cocktail of repression, but Robyn Hill takes great joy baring her fangs at insurmountable odds, what with being a humble little huntress aiming to plant her butt in a Council seat and all. She's too smart, too stupid, or too damn cocky to give up easy, dependent on the situation.

_And doing dental work on a Sabyr's a lot easier when you've got yourself a dose of anesthetic._

Robyn dumps her empty mug onto the pile amassing in the sink, and glides to the edge of the couch where her paramour's perched. Rather than the loud, lighthearted nagging she's pestered her with so far, she leans down with an arm around May's shoulders, even as she's intently ignored.

_Good thing she's a knave at heart. Good thing she knows the secret, now._

Lower, and lower, lips just atoms away from grazing the shell of May's ear. Her voice sickly-sweet and razor-sharp, gentle and uncompromising. 

"Five minutes. Finish what you're doing. You tidy up, turn it off, lose the coat, lose the shoes. Bedroom. Knees."

_Good thing she knows how to cheat._

"...That's an order, Bluebird."

* * *

It's not been that long, in the greater scheme of things, since Robyn finally started shining a light on a certain facet of her least-happy huntress. One which, truthfully, was about as subtle as a Megoliath in a fine art gallery. 

Even if they'd poked and jabbed about it in giggly Truth Or Dares as far back as their Academy days, it nonetheless had to be clarified. Had to be tested for its depth. And while she hadn't expected such an unconventional **_dynamic_** to develop inside their group's existing unconventional relationship, to evolve the shape of it, all their roles and how they relate... Robyn revels in the change.

Moreover, she likes getting to know more about what makes her team tick, what's really going on behind those amber eyes, for all their stark stares and defiant glares. That there's a part of her moody, indomitable, monster-slaying May that wants, that **needs** a place to be soft, turn off, and surrender in safety. To meet the approval of someone who makes her feel she matters.

_To be good enough._

So, when the white noise of SDC-sponsored pundits rambling in the background cuts out, Robyn doesn't need to check her scroll to know it's been exactly five minutes since she sat down at the small, repurposed office desk-slash-vanity in their bedroom, killing time browsing on her device.

Robyn doesn't turn around, doesn't acknowledge the creak of the door, the sounds of rustling fabric -- weighty, the leather of the team coat -- or the clinking of a clothes hanger in the closet. The comically frustrated grunting and clunky thuds of those thigh-high combat boots, shod and kicked away. She already gave instruction, and now the ball's out of her court.

...Alright, so she might've left out a pillow on the floor just behind her desk, but that's the only extra hint she gave.

The _plumf_ of someone landing on said pillow is her cue to... No, she gives it a few seconds for effect. Robyn tabs out of her Very Important Work That's Not At All Restaurant Bookings For Sunday Night, shutting her scroll with a flick of the wrist and spinning her thrift-shop office chair to see what she's caught.

There she is, their feisty, smart-mouthed Atlesian runaway. Born in a castle in the sky, come down to muck around in snowy streets. Her brave girl, who wouldn't stop and accept the hand fate dealt her, and flipped the table instead. Her invisible girl, willing to let herself be seen. Her rebellious girl, who not half an hour ago told her to, quote, 'fuck off the edge of a glacier,' silently, willingly presenting herself. Head ducked hesitantly, hands fidgeting behind her back. 

Kneeling for her.

_And fuck, if that's not the hottest thing._

Robyn's lips curl into that award-winning smirk, and she finally administers a dose. **_"...Good girl."_**

May sharply inhales, and shivers tip to toe. Her aura _thrums._

"I know we've all been figuring _this_ out..." Robyn flicks a pair of fingers between herself and the girl on the floor. "For a while, now. We're _still_ figuring it out... But I hope you know how much it means you trust us in this. Let us see you like this."

It's a natural part of her, that much Robyn knows, but the outer layer of her personality, that thick steel wall with barbed wire to match, tries to stave off any threat of a breach. She fights against letting it show, out of pride, fear of judgment. It wouldn't be the first time May's gone to war with herself to pry out the truth about who she is, even if this is a truth only trusted to three women in all of Remnant. And Robyn just happens to be one of them.

"Safewords?"

"...Stoplight or a three-tap," May mumbles, straining against her impulse to run. To put up more walls. Pop her semblance and fucking _bolt._

"And your color now?"

"Ugh! Green, Robyn, OBVIOUSLY--" And her eagerness. And her shame for that eagerness. And her shame for showing that shame, as if it's disrespectful.

The exasperated indignance on display could easily be brushed off as May being May, but the wellbeing of her girls is something Robyn isn't keen to play around with. Especially not tonight, when gears are whirring, and a plan is falling into place.

"Little hasty, aren't we? Care to back that up?"

May rolls her eyes at the inescapable routine, slapping her hand into Robyn's as it's extended, and waiting for the Lie Detection semblance to shine with the color in question. It comes through crystal-clear.

The blonde makes a noise of assent and releases the grip, watching as the woman on her knees resumes her posture without being asked. She's contemplating all sorts of ways to test her girl, tease her, help put her under in that special headspace. Imagining the tools she'll use to... Erm.

She's been playing by ear so far, following a familiar flowchart of ways to ease into intimacy, and expecting to have all the prerequisites in place. And that's when it hits her.

_Waiiiit... Where's the toy bag?_

The Happy Huntresses cycle safehouses on a regular basis as a precaution, even without any imminent threat to their safety. Their latest dreary hole-in-the-wall has only been home base for half a week, attested to by the mounds of boxes not as-yet unpacked, luggage strewn about. 'It's the election,' they cried. 'We'll do it later,' they cried.'

_Forgot to find the toy bag. Shit, forgot to prep for AFTERCARE, too. Stall for time._

"Stand up? Alright. The rest of those clothes can go, dear. All but the underthings. I want the pleasure myself," Robyn rattles off, her easygoing confidence nothing but a bluff this time around. Not yet internally screaming, but... internally making some very uneasy noises all the same. "Fold them, set them aside by the time I'm back." She lifts from her chair, reaching to her subordinate's bicep for a quick squeeze.

_But is that going to buy her enough?_

"And let that hair down, too. I want to see it all."

_Eh. That'll do._

* * *

Robyn shuts the bedroom door, leaving May to her menial tasks, and snatches her scroll from her pocket, immediately tabbing to their team's group text.

 **[The_Lovebirds_Nest]**  
CURRENT CHANNEL: **[xX=Queer Women's Revolutionary Socialist Book Club & Sewing Circle=Xx]**  
...  
**| >** how was the flick?  
**| >** you girls got a second to talk?  
**|[Soft Smol GF]** stereotypical comphet forbidden love story  
**|[Soft Smol GF]** mistrali historical revisionism  
**|[Soft Smol GF]** humans w/ silicone ears instead of faunus leads  
**|[Big Tol GF]** As trashy as 20 lien can deliver, and the popcorn was stale.  
**|[Soft Smol GF]** i s2tg one of them was   
**|[Big Tol GF]** What's there to talk about?  
**|[Soft Smol GF]** falling off + he had to hold it for the rest of the shot  
**| >** she was doing it again  
**|[Soft Smol GF]** for the speech b4 the big fight  
**|[Soft Smol GF]** wait may?  
**|[Big Tol GF]** I'm not surprised.  
**|[Big Tol GF]** She's the only one of us more self-sacrificial than you.  
**|[Soft Smol GF]** probs be more relaxed if we lost tbh  
**| >** self-destructive, more like.  
**| >** after being so CRUELLY ABANDONED BY TWO OF MY FAVORITE WOMEN, on my NIGHT OF VICTORY, I believe I'll spoil her.  
**| >** would be easier to do that if I knew where the toy bag ended up in the move.  
**| >** either of you care to enlighten me?

The _[Typing...]_ indicators trail off, and the group text goes dark. A half-minute passes like molasses before Robyn's scroll pulses, loudly cranking out Fiona's personalized pop-punk ringtone. Robyn snaps it up quick.

"And?"

"So, and don't get mad, so we might have a teensy-weensy problem?"

"...Don't tell me you left it at the old place. We went through the checklist, *everything* packed in your semblance before we left."

"No, no, we have it!" A pregnant pause, a twinkling, panicky giggle from Fiona. "D'ah... we _literally?_ Have it?"

Miles across town, tucked under the side-entrance awning of an abandoned tanning salon adjacent the Mantle Miniplex Theater, a sheep faunus stares down at a thick nylon duffel fallen haphazardly onto the frosty pavement, and the smattering of sexual implements spilled out from its belly like smutty entrails. Her hunky human companion crouches nearby, fishing for a silvery buttplug bulb stuck in a sewer grate.

The sophomoric fact this pocket-dimension fiasco technically means their favorite little sheep has been scampering around town with all their toys _'inside her'_ at this very moment does not escape Robyn, and the perverse image it conjures up smacks her with an uncharacteristically ugly snort of laughter that risks further shattering the mood. 

"For Brothers' sake..."

" _Waitwaitwait!_ There might still be something you can use! The other day, we were running out of time packing, right? Had to be out by noon? The bag wasn't zipping and I couldn't carry the rest all loose! So-- I just-- may have... stuffed the rest in your tundra kit?"

Robyn knits her brows. Pinches the bridge of her nose. And summarily ~~sprints~~ power-walks to the corner closet where the team had stacked their packs for expeditions outside the city, hauling her own from the stack and unfurling it, expecting a last-minute miracle.

Aside from her actual SURVIVAL GEAR, there's little mercy from the gods. No sign of her curated, color-coordinated, size-adjusted set of phallic substitutes save one hefty, thick number in hunter-green -- the usual suspect for a casual tumble in the sheets with Jo, NOT the safe, simple, _this-porridge-is-just-right_ medium that May can take with little effort. Aside from that, a tangle of leathery loops she pegs as a harness, albeit not her favorite. Half a bottle of lube. And lastly, one tiny, rinky-dink Bachelorette Party bullet vibrator and its scroll-sync remote to match.

"Still there? Find anything?"

"You. You two left me _marooned_ with ONE measly little bullet, and the wrong size for my strap. You wound me. You wound your intrepid leader."

"We'll be back in a little while! Can't you just--"

"I am **trying** to fuck some self-preservation back into our girlfriend, and I can't do that with a lazy three-hour handjob!"

Robyn fumes in futility, but only for so long. She's the Leader of the Happy Huntresses! She's a dashing rogue, if she might say so herself, and thinking on her feet in times of crisis is another arrow in her quiver!

Her dearheart in the bedroom is probably through stripping by now, but she may yet have a minute on the grounds of 'making her simmer,' because That's Kind Of A Domme Thing To Do. Her tundra kit is already open, and there's always the bundled rope within, but none of it is treated. It would chafe like a bastard, and the paracord's probably not safe either.

So what the hell else can she use to help their poor girl let go? Time to take stock.

 _"Procuring"_ a full crate of Atlesian gravity bolas on one of the team's anti-corruption raids was a no-brainer at the time -- Another batch of weapons out of the hands of the military police, they could easily be dismantled for dust and components, they could provide practice finding ways to break free in a pinch, and if they should eventually provide a utility in making love to her paramours? Let it never be said Robyn Hill is not a thrifty woman.

*The ethical quandaries and psychological ramifications of using Ace-Op tech to get off can wait until later.*

There's a little luggage bag of spare clothing, most of it meant for rare overnight stays in the upper city, when trying to hook a meeting with a potential political sponsor. Robyn tears through the layers until she has her quarry: a sheer set of hosiery she'd only worn once before it started to run a ladder, and pair of panties which... Well, she can't remember quite who they belong to, but finders keepers. Plucking the multitool from her tundra kit, she shears off a leg and stuffs the panties inside, wadded into a ball, quickly tying off some careful knots to form a flimsy, but theatrically-sound gag of sorts. While she's already on a roll, she jimmies the cap on the bolas' grav-dust reservoirs, and taps out half its dark-purple contents into a vial. No use in risking accidents cutting off bloodflow, nor in blowing good dust.

A spare pair of gloves. A bottle of water. A packet of club crackers. Ointment. A scrunchie.

"Alright, you two. You're going on mute. If I have to improvise, then so do you -- stand by."

"What."

* * *

Back in the bedroom, the bluenette's done exactly as Robyn ordered. Bare but for baby-blue bra and panties, long cerulean locks catching the light of the desk lamp. It warms her heart and some Other Quite Important Places, too. But. Later.

"That's my girl," Robyn purrs, kicking closed the door and unceremoniously dumping her haul on the oversized bed, covered with a corner of the sheets. No good comes from showing her hand straightaway. "Color?"

Again, May gives a "Green," less confrontational, less agitated than the last. Still a smidge of uneasiness, but... It's... it's May. That's. It's on the first page of the manual.

On her return, Robyn had placed her bets on another incidental item being in play, and sure enough, when she glances down at the folded laundry, she spots it: May's favorite burnt-ochre scarf, laid overtop. Perfect.

"And you trust me?" she asks, already knowing the answer. It's all about the pace. All about the steady lead-in. That scarf is lifted up from behind, around to where May can see it, then brought around her eyes to seal them away. Her sight, surrendered to her captain.

"Nngh... wouldn't be standing here if I didn't," May brats, brattily. It's a reflex, Robyn knows, as much as donking a leg with one of those tiny hammers at the hospital, so she takes no REAL umbrage with the attitude. Smiles, even. It's no problem, it's an opportunity.

_***Thwap!*** _

Skin on skin. Robyn's palm swats firm into May's rear, hard enough for the single strike to blossom a pretty pink blotch in its trail, but not to trigger the woman's aura.

May hisses at the dwindling sting, and holds her tongue as Robyn closes in, woolly sweater pressing against her back, hands rubbing her shoulders.

"Now, hon. I can tell. Just from that? I can tell just how much you want to go over my knee."

There's a grumble. It's not as dismissive as it should be.

"But that's not what we're doing tonight. No rough, no rowdy, no punishment. Being over my lap is what you think you need most. Tonight... is for what you truly do, Princess."

That fucking nickname, too. It had been all in jest, at first, when the lively blonde smacked May upside the head with it -- her wealthy Atlesian upbringing the genesis, her personality archetype its proof -- and hell if it hadn't stuck. It wouldn't get the sort of play it does, if it weren't making May whine pleadingly at its very mention.

"...Yes, ma'am."

 _ **Brothers a-fucking-bove,**_ if it's not a point of pride, being the only woman in the world May Marigold will _'Yes Ma'am.'_ No matter HOW reluctantly, how much she has to strain to push it out, get it up and over all those walls. Sure, the others can command her respect in their own way, but this? This is hers.

Robyn lays a hand at her girlfriend's waist, another takes her hand, and the Happy Huntresses' resident Princess is guided step by step towards the bed's edge.

"Hop up for me, sweetheart. Find the middle. Facing this way-- Over here. Sit for me just... Mm. Just like that. Now, on your back?"

It's a bit convoluted, but it works, the pair finagling May into the center of the bed, same as when she's in the middle of their clumsy snuggle sandwiches, all the while not bumping her into the Suspicious Lump formed of the supply stash. With her girl's sight out of commission, Robyn can finally lay out the tools of her newfound trade, and get to work.

"Hands above your head and back, Mayflower. You know where they're headed." 

May purses her lips, mutters a loose "M'kay..." of acknowledgement, and brings her hands to the steely headboard grate. The initial expectation is for some fuzzy, ticklish material to close around them, a set of disgustingly cliche fuzzy-cuffs from the team's first forays into embracing their dynamic. But. Those are halfway across town, lost in the abyss of SOMEBODY'S blasted pocket dimension, possibly still soaking wet from being dropped in a frigid puddle. Instead, Robyn's lacing them in circle-8's with a thin, but weighty cord, which suddenly snaps tight of its own volition -- the gravity dust bolas triggered and latching shut.

The salaciousness in Robyn's tone takes a backseat to legitimate concern. "Too tight? Or just right?"

Clanking follows, as the bolas are bumped against the metal bars, the bindings tested. "S'fine, they're fine..." 

Robyn leaves a moment of pause for May to adjust, lets her muscles relax as her subconscious catches on that she's not going anywhere. Not that she'd want to. In the meantime her spare pair of gloves, a tighter leather set with no holes for forefingers, are pulled on closely enough to May's ears to hear the leather creak. She straddles her girlfriend's waist then, paying only the most minute attention to that utterly mysterious bump beneath her butt, noticeable even through her fleece runners. Or that breathless noise the girl makes as she lands on it.

She'll get to it in due time. Any grinding at this point is purely coincidental.

Gloved hands glide languidly up May's sides, from her waist to her ribcage, Robyn's thumbs playing over the divots between as she muses aloud.

"So!" she trills, squeezing around back to unhook a pair of bra clasps and pushing the garment up and away from its inhabitants. "We need to chat about your behavior!"

" _The hell--?_ If you tricked me into this just so you can nag--"

In a swift movement, May's tongue is forced down flat to the floor of her mouth, fore and middle fingers of Robyn's right hand jabbed right between her lips and stifling the backtalk into senseless sounds of confusion.

Robyn waits. Five seconds, six.

May begins to _suck._

"Ssh, there we go. This is... pft. This is exactly what I mean, Princess. I barely even started, and off you go. _Always_ talking your way out of it, the moment you sense it coming.   
The fingers slide further in, nearly to the knuckle, and stroke against the tongue lapping away at them.

"And not just that: I was thinking, who's the one who drafted the better half my speeches these last three months? Trends _you_ picked out for us to focus on this season? My talking points, right up to my victory speech this morning? Could as well've been you out there, doing all. That. Talking."

Robyn's other hand shoots to her pile of paraphernalia and picks up the makeshift gag, preparing for a swap-out. 

"So now, it's **my** turn for a bit. Open wide, hon."

May's tongue flaps awkwardly as its dance partners flee the scene all at once, immediately replaced by Robyn's own as she darts in for a blistering kiss. cupping her girl's face firm by the chin to hold her steady. The liplock, the moaning, all go on until both are breathless, and being professional huntresses, they've a lot of stamina to burn. Robyn pulls away, and permits her pet to catch her second wind. Only then does she slide the substitute gag into place, working through May's befuddled grunting to fasten it behind her head, same as the scarf.

"Hush, dear. _Hush,_ now."

The wadded panties within are nowhere near as effective at dampening sound as fictional kidnappers make fabric-based gags out to be on television. Though a deeper scrubbing of the apartment could've turned up plenty of other mouth-sized objects to cram inside, when the Happy Huntresses are pushing a _'Show Your Teeth'_ tagline, it's best they're not all broken. Safety first, 'til real gear's on hand.

Robyn leans up straight, watching May stretch her jaw, bite down on the clump of her teammates' underwear, and rationalize the situation. And also, squirm somewhat as Robyn shifts her weight back and forth -- only SLIGHTLY on purpose -- while she reaches to grab another key item.

"And for the record, I'm sure it's not just me that has something to say," she says loudly, seemingly building to something the bound and blindfolded bluenette can't hope to guess at. Something small and hard _pwifs_ against the pillow just to the right of May's head, and there's the sound of tapping against a thin projection of hard-light.

"You'd better still be there, girls."

"Fucking-- Can she hear us now? ROBYN! Gods, we're at the _BUS STOP!"_

"HI, MAY~!"

May flinches, startled, at the illusory intrusion, until her conscious mind processes that no, her Girlfriends Who Shouldn't Be Here Right Now are not, actually, Here Right Now, as evidenced by the grainy audio quality. And. The whole 'bus stop' comment, but she's a few steps behind on things, the blood in her brain having to go splitsies with a contentious member of the family down south.

_Have they been there the whole time? Can they see her?  
_

Content to leave May vexed by this little distraction, if not also disappointed at the lack of _friction_ between them, Robyn hops offside her prey and stalks around the bed, keeping them all talking to cover the sounds of her preparation.

"I'll have you know, she's quite a sight like this. You're missing out."

_Yeah, no. If only scroll reception weren't a blight down here, they'd have the bandwidth for video. Thanks a lot, 'civic infrastructure initiative.'_

"...She's even wearing the pair you got her last Solstice, Fi."

"Ooh! With the butterflies?"

"The butterflies," Robyn beams. Not a Solstice, winter *or* summer, birthday, anniversary, hell, even Miner's Memorial Day tends to go by without one of the girls forcing a cute new item of clothing on their Mayflower, especially in light of how sparse her wardrobe was when she'd first come out, and come down. The ratio of lingerie-to-legitimate-apparel is, understandably, quite high.

The set May's sporting was Fi's last offering, a modest, cutely-embroidered bra and panty set, outlines of dark lepidopteran wings stenciled out at asymmetric angles across the broader sections. It's pretty damned cute. All girlfriends rate it a 10 out of 10, not adjusting for bias. Even stronger bias, no doubt, if they could see it as it stands, the upper half rumpled and pushed up, useless to cover her still-developing breasts, the lower beginning to tent with May's shameless need.

All the while the three un-gagged women chatter about their fourth's wardrobe, Robyn has finished latching, fastening, popping, squeezing, fastening again, and performing several other verbs to ready herself for phase... Phase whatever-the-hell-she's-on. Phase petty. Because she's feeling a little petty tonight, on top of everything else, and her two wayward loves might deserve to feel a little jealous. _Should've stuck around for the festivities!_

May's been left at a low boil all throughout, only interjecting with some noises devoid of coherence, but conveying the same exasperated tone of embarrassed profanity she'd otherwise be spitting, were she not muffled with drool-soaked hose. She sputters, though, head bouncing up a bit to look despite the blindfold ensuring she can't, as a nimble hand roughly palms her through the sheer fabric. As a finger hooks into those critically-acclaimed panties and yanks. Down to the knees with them, tangling up her legs in short order.

"And there she is... hey, baby~" Robyn croons, mounting the bed once more, landing lower atop May's scar-flecked thighs. A weaker woman would feel silly, speaking to her partner's genitalia, even grinning down at it conspiratorially, despite its lack of eyes with which to perceive the threat. _But then, this is Robyn Hill._

Pale and plush, shaved, and as antisocial as its bearer, May's less-than-average length is admittedly not matching up to any outdated, body-negative rubrics for scale -- That'll happen when one has to pull a pharmaceutical U-turn for a second puberty -- but that's only made it more precious to the women who call it out to play. 

Robyn runs her thumb up the thin, darker line on its underside, pulls back down at the skin... then puts her plan in motion. The inconsequential scrunchie and unimpressive bullet vibe left to her by toy-bag-hoarding brigands are jury-rigged into a twisted band holding the toy just beneath her tip. It's a fiddly process, with May more than a little twitchy and babbling nonsense just being fondled and fussed with like this, but the thing sticks true.

"Alright, I heard her just now, you did something. What're you doing over there?" Jo barks over, instead of hanging up and sparing herself the temptation.

Robyn shines the room a toothy grin, observed by no one. "You girls still have that Bad Beowolf app installed? I'm going to be a bit busy here for a few minutes, so if you wouldn't mind helping me out a tad..."

Leaving their other half to invariably open up the program they'd messed around with months ago, Robyn drags her leather gloves all across the breadth of May's bare thighs, testing the supple skin for the honed muscle beneath. And she pulls them apart. 

"I did mean it, Bluebird. Your behavior." Robyn pops the cap on the bottle of slippery, aloe-scented stuff and drizzles it liberally onto her opposite palm. Onto the sturdy green shaft she's mounted on her hip harness, where she emphasizes smudging it all around the plump tip. "The way you treat yourself... It only makes us want to step in." The audio pickup on the scroll only barely records her weaker tone, but the other side of the line pipes in some mild murmurs of agreement.

May's thighs beg to clench, automatically clamp shut, but through her dedicated efforts, all that shows through are jitters and plaintive moans. The slicked-up leather-clad fingers prod that meek ring of muscle below, until they get the go ahead. They're the scouting party. Scissoring motions to clear the area, then retreating to evac before the big guns roll in. "And before you say we don't have to -- not that you *can* -- you're going to remember how badly we want to."

The rubbery tip kisses May's entrance.

"How madly we love you."

Robyn drives in the head of her strap with a snap of her hips, fervently sinking the first inch-or-so inside. In that very same instant, coincidence mandated by the gods, the bullet vibrator buzzes to life, sending a frisson of stimulus down May's shaft and dispersing through her every nerve.

On the cold Mantle street corner, Fiona draws a finger back from the scroll presently displaying a simple menu of binary toggles and various pulse settings, to throw Jo a thumbs-up.

_May **bleats.**_

"Shit, Robbie, you're-- You are ACTUALLY going to get me horny at the Pinewood bus stop," Joanna blurts out of the scroll, irritated and... rather impressed. "You are legitimately a terrorist."

"You've got Fiona there with you, right? I'm sure she'd love to help."

"THE **BUS STOP!** "

"Yeah! There's old gum on the bench! And weird stains!" Fiona looks away from the menu to tentatively squint at one, and her whole immune system lurches.

"Exactly. Ergo, nobody would notice if you made a few more, right?"

Aside from the multitude of reasons people do not oft have sex on municipal bus stop benches, whilst the Happy Huntresses don't blink an eye at skirting charges of theft, conspiracy, sedition, and vigilantism on a daily basis, they draw the line at public indecency. Mantle is not a _'pussy-out'_ sort of town.

Robyn laughs, full throated, loving this. Loving her loves. Leaving Joanna and Fi on the back burner, deserters that they are, she addresses the girl casually warming the tip of her strap.

"Now, I know it's a little big for you, Princess, but SOMEONE--"

"Oh, give it a rest," snaps Jo.

"I'm really sorry!" Fi cuts in.

"...Ran off with your favorite. But we're going to go safe and slow, because I know you'll take it so well. You remember your nonverbal -- do it for me now?"

Some clinking of adjustment from bound hands by the headboard, then a **_Knock-knock-knock._** May's getting there already, that hazy place in her mind rarely reached, where she brooks no hesitation in compliance, and surrender is so sweet.

Robyn arcs forward, propped on outstretched arms to hover above the woman teeming with repressed, carnal need beneath her. May's never like this, never any time else. Stone silence or razor-sharp anger. Invisibility or martial fury. Here, she's gasping around spit-soaked panties, limbs uselessly tensing and testing against the forces that bind them, whether cord or a pinning position. And so loud, with her noises of pleasure, she's-- It's special.

"That's our girl. Let yourself enjoy something, for once. No hiding. No running. No talking back."

With speed to make slugs look nimble, the second slick inch inches in. Pity that the added girth is too new to get over-enthused, having to substitute for a shallower expedition with the wrong size of dildo, but we can't all live in ivory towers with designer-built hard-light cocks calibrated to any dimension like the bourgeoisie. May's taking it well, as expected, the stretch only aching a fraction of a second until fullness is her reward. 

"You can let go, May."

It's special finally getting her like this, body, mind, and soul in agreement for once. Brothers know she's been given every reason not to be.

"We're all here for you."

In theory, and in sentiment, at least. The chatter from the peanut gallery across town has temporarily ceased, replaced with some bassy roars of passing public transit. Someone must still be paying half-attention, as the bullet vibrator begins humming a pulsing pattern on May's member.

The reassuring line works, too. She chokes out a long keening cry and squirms, attempting to press further down the toy on her own. Eager, and writhing, body burning up. And Robyn, indulging her with another inch, not too far, too fast, just enough to keep seeing May _WRITHING_ beneath her, approaching bliss, chasing it so honestly like she never does in any other facet of her life. Never, except when she's free to be like this. Submissive.

_*It's time, isn't it?*_

_She's waited long enough. And enough's been learned, roles researched, tested out. Everyone's on board._

Musing aloud for the two absentees to hear, Robyn makes the decisive judgment call. "I'm giving it to her."

"Yeah, we _kind of GOT that,_ Robs." Joanna deadpans.

Their team leader rolls her eyes, and ruts herself into May again, for emphasis. _(She groans. Her contribution to the conversation.)_

"No, I mean I'm going to give... **_IT_** to her."

The verbal italics don't seem to convey through the call, as Fiona's voice returns asking "Wha~at exactly are we talking about?" She fiddles with the remote app's digital dials as she asks, and May's sex throbs harder as a result.

"C'mon, lambchop, tell me you at least unloaded the--" Robyn stops short, eyeing the very distracted, sweat-slick woman beneath her. "The... thing?"

"The thing," repeats Fiona, marvelling at her glorious leader's unimpeachable speechcraft.

"The ox-bay with the ecial-spay ing-thay for May... -ay?" says the woman somehow aspiring to go further into politics.

"Oh! Yes! I hid it in with the-- Like, under the silverware drawer? Pull it out, and there's that hole with the dust bunnies? In there!"

"...We're going to unpack your packing habits at a later date, sweets."

Joanna butts in, probably craning down from her skyscraper height to put her face right next to the device: "Hold the scroll!" Actually, Fiona's holding it, but the faunus doesn't jump at the low-hanging fruit. "That's a big deal. You seriously cant wait an hour?"

"You were thinking Vacuan, right, Jo-Jo? Fadhi's is packed on Fridays, with the bus it'll be two at the soonest, and our babygirl won't last that long." Robyn pitches a world-weary sigh. "To think, I just wanted all my loves to celebrate together... Oh, but I wouldn't want to disobey the _chart,_ would I? -- If you're getting hummus, ask for extra pita chips, we're still out."

"Eh!? Screw that, we're headed back NOW."

_Got 'em._

"But May here's going to be so drained when we're done, you won't bring her a bite?"

"Bite ME, Robbie."

"Mayday's got first dibs, but I can pencil you in?"

There's a wet stomping of roadside slush from the other side of the line. A hissed *'can't believe this bitch,'* and the call disconnects.

Not one to fall short of expectations, The Unbelievable Bitch does bite -- Bends in for a slow, predatory descent down the middle during another hilting push, then zooms aside to nip May's ear, tugging at her lobe.

"Hear how eager they are to be home, hon?" Robyn oozes, drifting three inches back, driving four inches in. "They want to see you like this, too. Haven't they always, ever since you showed us?"

May's head flip-flops side to side on the pillows, though the angle of trajectory indicates less of a _'nuh-uh,'_ more of a, _'my brain is starting to leak out my dick.'_ Something is leaking out, anyway, a thin droplet at the peak.

"I got something special for you... really, it's from the three of us, because those two don't mind stealing credit, and they'll be involved in a way. But it's my job to make the call."

Robyn tests her balance and flexibility, still steadily grinding herself into May's core as best she can without having to bend the girl backwards, and snakes a hand through the bedframe, searching... searching, and clasping tight onto the fisted hands of her Princess.

"I think you'll love it, hon. Think you know what it is, already. But you'll have to tell me if you want it or not. Can't do that without a clear head... so let's take care of you, first. Do you want to cum, now?"

Perhaps the stupidest question Robyn's ever asked while deploying her semblance; she just wanted to see how brightly their hands would flash green. _Answer's 'very.'_

She didn't think she would be able to push this far with an oversized toy, but true to form, when she's like this May takes what she's given. Languidly, lavishly, Robyn sinks her strap to the hilt inside her lover. She may be new to this, but she knows there's still one last cue.

"Mm-hmm. **Cum for me, May.** "

And the least Happy Huntress hits it, that special headspace, the moment she whites out and spurts ropes of thin, whitish essence onto herself -- her aura, effected by the release, sets her glowing as May absolutely mewls, while Robyn sings sin into her ears, and ruts, and hardly notices how godsdamned wet this all is making _her_ besides, because she's fueled by that raw exhilaration of steady, loving dominance, making her rigid, repressed, rebellious girl come undone.

* * *

She's still tranced out, blissed out, dipping her toes in the subspace pool by the time Robyn returns from-- _Wait, when did she even leave?_ By the time Robyn is poised at her girlfriend's side, deactivating the gravity bolas and untethering makeshift gag and blindfold both. All are tossed aside, a _later_ problem.

The bedroom roils into focus for May as the scarf is slipped over her head, and the first blobby shape she seeks to clarify is the tannish-blondeish mass poking out from a grey one.

"Welcome back. Think you can give me a color?" Robyn asks slowly, shifting something in her lap. The pillows have been re-piled, giving herself and the drowsier woman a place to slump while seated up.

"Greh... Gruh-wuh. Ow, shit," May says at length, bringing a wibbly-wobbly hand up to crank at her jaw, now that it's unfettered. Must've bitten down too hard.

 _Well then!_ "Shit, huh? Not one of our normal colors, but I'm sure we can..."

A sweaty palm plaps against Robyn's sleeve. "S'green. Do... d'you need me to...?"

"Hoped so, hon. And no, not right now," Robyn chuckles, "No, there'll be time for me later -- the others aren't back yet." Self-control. Atlas Academy-trained self-control. That is the only, emphasis, **only** thing standing in the way of her yanking down her track pants and stuffing May in her muff this very minute. Guess Upper Atlas was good for one thing, at least.

_Well, two things, counting this precious, moody, complicated, wonderful woman they're lucky to have._

"Bu~t they left us to fend for ourselves, so... They won't going to be privileged enough to watch this next part."

Once she's moderately confident May is seeing straight, Robyn pops the clasps on a rectangular wooden box laid on her legs, and pulls something from its crushed-velvet interior.

Dangling from her finger, extended out to be placed in May's waiting hands, a sleek, padded, fine leather collar in burnt-ochre, same as her trademark scarf. The holes and golden studs are unobtrusive, making plenty of room for the partial appearance of the Happy Huntress crest in a bright amber, curved along its sides. Front and center, a simple O-ring, symbolism and utility.

"Hand."

May blinks. Kind of forgot where she was, it seems. With one clutching the Undoubtedly Very Expensive Please Don't Tell Me How Many Lien This Ran You item in one, she gives Robyn the other, already expecting the incipient aura-tingle as _Lie Detection_ warms up. 

"You, out of all of us, already know what this means... the gist, anyway, what I'm saying by offering. So I think I'll cut the speech -- you've heard me botch through enough of those this campaign, right?" Robyn rolls out that lopsided grin again, but her eyes aren't in it. She knows the answer already too, but... She can't help being a little scared nonetheless! Big relationship moments, and all.

"May... if you want this, you're going to have to promise a few things. We can sweat the small stuff later on down the line. I want you to promise me you'll remember you're loved. That you'll try your best to take care of yourself. And that means when you don't think you can... you'll tell one of us." Cheesy, right out of the gate. And heartwarming. And absolutely right. 

"Nnnn... Yes, ma'am." Their linked aura's color wavers, the bright, bold green tarnished by specks and threads of red ombre. It'll be hard for her,. All four of them know that. But Robyn doesn't let go, nor May, and through it all the green holds strong. Robyn retrieves and twirls the leather loop on her finger as if Spinny Motion and Shiny Object are going to compel May any further than their shared passion already has.

"And when Fiona and Jo get back, you'll promise them, won't you?"

"Tch, yeeesss, ma'aaaam." Now THERE'S their May, the sarcastic brat. Even in the afterglow, verge of subspace, it's never gone for long.

"Then I promise, too," Robyn soothes, angling for a proper kiss, and one to follow with every word. "Mine," she chants, "Ours. Loved."

"I'd better fuckin' be, after all that..."

"Don't make me go back on my word about not spanking you tonight. You are. VERY. Very close. Hair up?" Robyn swivels around while May gathers her locks up high, baring her neck. She shivers palpably when the open leather makes contact, releases a long sigh when it's being closed.

"...Alright, I know you want to say it," Robyn adds, testing the tightness with her fingers.

"Say what?" _These accusations, all of a sudden!_

"You can say it. I don't mind."

"Yes... uh."

*Because of course she'd know.*

"Y-yes... **_*Mistress?*_** "

"PFF, HA! _Thought so._ Buying you something nice with the lien you just won me, by the way." 

"Gods damn it! Who?"

"Lambchop for, Tiny against."

"Fucking Jo."

"We would be, if she were HERE."

Robyn's sly smile is rancid in its smugness, as she goes for her discarded scroll again. "Let's make 'em wish they were. Battery's running about as low as my patience, so this is the last treat they're getting."

She slings her arm around her Bluebird's shoulders and hugs her in close, resting their heads together in a classic couples photo pose, as if they did not Just Drastically Evolve Their Polycule's Dynamic All At Once Tonight. May blinks sleepily at the bright flash.

* * *

Consciousness hits her like -- and with -- a wave of nausea, only made more bothersome by the large hand rudely ruffling her hair. Bleary-eyed, she groans some unintelligible Menagerian dockworker-class profanity and wrenches herself up into a seated position on the squashy breakroom couch. Joanna glances down at her, sympathetically.

"Call just came in, we've got company inbound: Those kids're bringing the airship back around. You don't need to get up right this second, just thought you'd want the warning."

"How long was I out?" May asks, stretching her arms and rolling her neck in a wide arc... only now noticing a weight there, something thicker and heavier than her scarf, snug around her skin.

"Hour and a half. You weren't stupid enough to think we'd let you get away with 'just a few minutes,' were you?" Joanna rests a hand on a cocked hip, mildly amused at the slow speed at which her girlfriend's realization is settling in.

"Fuck you, and unrelated inquiry, what the hell?" 

May grasps at the edges of a certain custom, emblem-emblazoned leather band, a band which, pointedly, had NOT been there before she zonked out. One which should be, at this very moment, on the other end of the Grimm-sieged city, tucked away in a thin velvet-lined box inside a bedside nightstand.

_No, right here is where it should be._

Jo's eyes flick to the accessory, up to May's again. She quirks a brow.

"I _thought_ you two weren't making retrieval runs that far out, not until the second wave was through-- We agreed we'd put our own shit last."

"It was a five minute pitstop," Joanna remarks matter-of-factly, "put Doc's daughter on a fly-through on the perimeter to ping new breaches. Had her grab some shit on the way."

"...You sidetracked THE NEW WINTER MAIDEN to get my collar back. She knows. She's going to ask questions."

"She didn't look in the box."

"We've perverted the mind of the most naive girl in Atlas." May's voice is distant, wistful, even. "Polendina's going to kill us dead. The Queen Of All Fucking Grimm is on our doorstep, and I'm going to die to a handicapped old man in a spider-chair. The man who sells me estrogen. Goring me with a cold robotic pincer--"

"Calm your tiny tits. We gave her the key, a list of gear and effects to load up, that's all." The larger huntress occupies herself fiddling with May's nap-rumpled clothing, straightening the team crest on her lapel. "We all had something we needed. You, especially."

She'd never admit to it as easily as... other times, when her head is in another place entirely, but having her girlfriend's hands preening her smooths out enough roughness that May falls into a quiet, contemplative state. Then guilty. Because, like, duh?

"Fuck... I know it's stupid at a time like this, I know, it just helps, alright?" May grumbles sullenly, hazy mind already guessing blindly at whatever chastisement is coming her way for the indulgence, for putting so much stock into an outwardly meaningless symbol. The glossiness of her eyes is, naturally, ONLY a factor of recently waking up. She-- She must've yawned and not noticed. That's why they're wet.

Joanna sets her crossbow-staff aside, propped against the wall. Gingerly, she reaches down for her girlfriend's favorite scarf, tugging it up into place and neatly adjusting it to fully hide the special accessory beneath. Jo's hand continues upwards, brushing a combat-calloused thumb up May's throat, her jawline, her cheek. Smearing at the dewdrops forming on the edges of her vision.

"What you promised. Repeat it for me."

"Do we HAVE to do this NOW? Ggh... Know m'loved... try 'n take care of myself... Bitch at one of you if I can't, always tr-- _I'm not doing the whole damn contract!"_

"Uh-huh. Now listen. Why did we help those kids and sacrifice both time and resources for something that wasn't outwardly critical then and there? Pays off in the long run. Why did I distract the Winter-fucking-Maiden from blasting magic for 5 minutes? Keeping you sane, keeping you with us, same thing."

Lowly, slowly, May stands from the couch and utters a set of words she doles out like she's only got a couple dozen sets to spare for her entire lifespan. _"...Thank you."_

Naturally, Quiet And Docile May, while a treasured sight, also runs the risk of devolving into Silent And Fretful May left unattended. Joanna makes sure to jerk her partner awake before she fumbles into that funk again. Cuts her off before she spends too long on the thought they're both thinking.

"Oi." Joanna roughly cuffs her on the shoulder. Aura-fizzle rough. "...Focus up. We'll get this done, then we'll get her back. Get all of us together again."

"Gah, **bitch!** " May sneers, in the most affectionate tone one can feasibly declare someone a bitch. "Alright, alright, let's just... let's get back to it."

* * *

The kitchen's still dank. Everything's still rusty, or rotting, or moist, or some inexplicable intersection thereof. Few changes have been made to the map, the successful apartment block evacs and ruined shelters still growing at similar rates.

May reconnects her scroll to the emergency channel, its crackling broadcast mellowing out into softer static.

_Deep breath in, three, four. The snug, ever-present hug of her collar around her neck, safely hidden. Company's coming._

"This is May. Give me a status update for all districts by the southwest breach."

_Deep breath out, seven, eight... Finish the evacuation, get this done, get her back. Everyone together._

"I know, sector three's going to need the most help. I'm sending backup your way right now. Fiona, do you copy?

Robyn Hill isn't here. But May Marigold will suffice.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm. Very sorry. That you just saw any of that.  
> I don't know why it exists.  
> I'm not a writer. I mean, you should know that being as you just saw my writen't-ing there. Never published a fic before. At my age. Wow. What am I doing with my life.
> 
> If you want to end my regrettable existence for this, uh. I'm.  
> Basically only at https://twitter.com/Badendchan since Tumblr died.  
> Robyn, help.


End file.
